


Chasing Nora

by QueenHarleyQuinn



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, It just takes them a while to realize they like each other as much as they like Nora, Kidnapping, Love/Hate, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Rescue Missions, Running Away, Slow Burn, Threesome - F/M/M, kind of ?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2018-12-23 12:25:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11989749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenHarleyQuinn/pseuds/QueenHarleyQuinn
Summary: There are three things that are true about Fixer, Deacon and MacCready1. Fixer has a habit of running away2. Deacon has a habit of finding herand3. MacCready has a habit of opening his big mouthORWhen Nora goes missing Deacon is forced to recruit MacCready to find her again. The three of them have more issues than Astoundingly Awesome Tales but if teaming up with your worst enemy means finding your best friend, Mac and Deacon are up for the job.*Work in Progress** Number of Chapters May Change





	1. One - Fixer Has a Habit of Running Away

**Author's Note:**

> This is purely an indulgent love letter to my boys Mac and Deacon and an ode to my desire to marry both of them.
> 
> I should warn you I have a loose understanding of the build up to the Great War but, hey, it's just a fic.
> 
> Also I'm posting the first three chapters today because they really belong together the way Mac, Nora and Deacon do.
> 
> All comments and kudos make me smile so thank you in advanced <3

As with most bad habits, it goes back to Nora’s childhood. A lot people she used to know, adults a bit older and supposedly wiser, they used to say “Things were different back in my day, we wouldn’t run when the going got tough.” The same party line adults have always toed.

It was true, to a point. They enlisted, became nurses and soldiers and the people who made the fucking bombs. They didn’t run _from_ the war, they ran _into_ it with open arms and a grenade in each hand. They smiled and laughed because they thought they were winning. 

They created the next generation of nurses and soldiers, gave them an even worse war to smile at.

“If something is broken,” said Nora’s father, who had his part in escalating the war, like any good American, “you fix it.” He was ever the handyman, making household repairs left and right. She was a little girl in pigtails playing nurse with her dollies, absorbing every word.

And that was fine until her dad left when she was eight and he never came back. What the adults around her really meant was “We don’t run from bullets, we run from ourselves, from what we can’t fix.” and that marked first time she ran away too.

Now she’s an adult, half her hair shaved off and the only time she plays nurse is when she gets shot. She’s the Commonwealth’s handyman. When Desdemona asked Nora what she wanted her codename to be it didn’t take more than a minute for her to decide on Fixer.

So yeah, running away is in her blood but she’s always come back...or been dragged back. When she was eight the cops found her in the woods, cold and shivering in her dad’s flannel. It’s a mind fuck because two-hundred and ten years later she’s twenty-eight years old and still running away.

* * *

 The first time Nora ran away after becoming an agent, Deacon found her in twenty-four hours, covered in blood that wasn’t her’s, holed up in a train car. Cold and shivering.

“Fix?” He asked, as if he didn’t know it was her. He’d been watching since she rose out of the vault, he knew this was her M.O. Save lives, hunt monsters, help everyone but herself and then disappear for days at a time. He thinks about how he pops a stealthboy every now and then and decides he’s not going to be the pot calling the kettle black.

“Fix?” He repeated.

She shook her head, “Not who I am.”

He paused, “Nora?”

“I’m not a saviour, I can’t fix everything.” She had blood sprayed on her face like freckles, fear in her wide brown eyes. “M’not good enough.”

Deacon sat beside her in the traincar, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. His arms actually burned to hold her but he couldn’t do that, couldn’t step over those bounds because A) skeezy move, and B) he could actually hear Des’ voice in his head lecturing about _agents_ and _fraternizing_ and _you should know better, Deacon_.

Oh, and C) He’s still incredibly emotionally stunted. 

His arms stay glued to his sides.

“I’m not asking you to fix the world or save it. The Minutemen, the BoS, hell, even the Railroad, screw it all. You’ve done more good than any of us deserve.” Deacon couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. Something about Nora always pulls the pin out of him and he had to struggle to contain the detonation of words and truth. She already knew more about him than any person alive, and yet he found his lips moving to say more.

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re a hell of a person to have on our side but you’re not Jesus, or whatever. And I, for one, wouldn’t want you to be.” Deacon felt her staring up at him but he couldn’t bring himself to look back. “Enough with the angst, huh? Let’s get you home.”

“You won't tell Des about this, right?” Nora asks as she stands. She gives him whiplash with how she turns from a frightened, wild thing back into the Commonwealth’s hero.

“Sugar, you should have better sense by now than to ask me that.”

She smiles and it makes his heart do double take. “Thanks, _sugar_.”

* * *

 

This marks the fifth time she’s gone off the grid since waking up out of cryosleep. And this is the time where it hurts the most. It’s one thing to run away from an organization, to run from settlers with haunting eyes and homes. It’s an entirely different beast to run from a friend.

As she wanders north to her destination she thinks about everything MacCready said to her the night before when they celebrated the recovery of Mac’s son. The cure worked faster than either of them could have imagined but MacCready certainly wasn’t going to complain about it. Getting the good news from Daisy’s caravan took the wrinkle from his brow, made him him stand straighter and square his shoulders. He smiled.

He smiled all the way to the bar.

“You really are something else,” Mac said, three beers in. Nora’s face felt hot and it wasn’t from her drink. “No, uh, shoot, I didn't mean it like _that_ \-- I, I mean like, you're on a mission to save your son and you heal mine in the process? Who does that?! Friggin’ you, apparently.”

And then something shifts in his eyes, they're wider, brighter...hopeful. Nora's smile cracks. She's seen that look on the faces of families when they ask her to save someone in their lives. She's watched them crumble when she comes back with a scraggly teddy bear or an old ring or a family gun, and not a person. They want so much from her.

“Boss? You okay?”

_No_. “Mhm, just tired. You think we can talk them down from ten caps for a room to five?”

He laughs, “We can try.”

* * *

 

She pushes all of the memories back physically as she bashes a charging mirelurk with her shotgun. Nora’s never liked crab, which is blasphemy since she’s from the original Boston. They always seemed a little bit too much like spiders to her in 2077. Now they were as alien and terrifying as any other Commonwealth Beast.

Several shotgun blasts to the creature’s face sounds great in theory but it’s turning out to be a lot more work than she realized. A few more Mirelurks spring up and her heart starts beating out of her chest. Jesus she hates these things.

As Nora sprints away, ready to pull a grenade out of her pack a bullet flies over her shoulder and kills one of the Mirelurks (she likes to believe it’s a lucky shot on the one she’s been working on anyway.)

It’s either Mac or Deacon who’s helping her out. One of her snipers in a nest somewhere, still looking out for her even when she deserts them. She likes to believe this, too.

Nora throws a grenade over her shoulder and takes cover behind a crumbling pillar. She counts the seconds before the explosion.

The grenade takes care of the Mirelurk closest to her but the second one is still rushing her on half speed. Nora unloads five more shots before it finally dies.

A sigh of relief blows out of her as she peers around looking for a familiar duster or pompadour but doesn’t see sign of either. It leaves a hollow space in her stomach.

Nora winces, feeling a pinch in her back. More like a sting but it’s different from the pain of a stingwing or a radscorpion - it’s smaller, more consentrated. She reaches blindly behind her and pulls out a half empty syringe. The liquid inches slowly like a slug as she tilts it from side to side. _Uh oh_.

Hastily, she tears off her pack and searches for her medkit. She plucked out a stimpack and jammed it into her thigh. Sweat started trickling down her face as she continued swaying on her feet. _Shit, out of Med-x? Shit, shit, shit._

Her knees give out but she breaks her fall without stretched hands. She’s face to face with a freshly killed mirelurk. She shouldn’t have come out here without telling anyone. And to make it worse all she could think about was MacCready. _I’m not used to people sticking around,_ Mac’s words stumble around in Nora's cloudy head. She was just another person to leave him. Fuck.

She crawls slow and pathetic, like a feral with missing legs. Nora doesn’t even know who she’s crawling from, or which direction to go in. She grabs her pistol from her thigh and keeps her finger on the trigger as her gloved hands grab at earth and pavement. 

A dirty hand yanks her by her hair, puling her to a kneeling position. A boot kicks the gun out of her hand. “Holy shit, it really is her.” A raider says. Does she know him? Half of his face is covered by a bandana, and the part she could see was dirty and unrecognizable.

“One eleven in the flesh. Bet you didn't know there was a bounty on your head.” It might be the drugs but it really seems like the second raider, a female, materializes out of thin air like a bad sci-fi film.

“Quit fucking around and knock her out.” A deep and distant voice orders. Nora’s head feels a size too big as she attempts turn in the direction of the third voice. The raider just tugs harder on her dark hair as Nora squirms around.

The woman smiles, her lipstick smeared face twisted in Nora’s drug induced state, looking more and more clownish by the minute. She squeezes her eyes shut so she doesn’t have to take another minute of it. With her eyes closed the butt of the pipe rifle comes as a total surprise.


	2. Two - Deacon Has a Habit of Finding Her

It's the start to the worst joke he's ever heard of and, sadly, it’s his actual _life_. Sometimes his existence is a pained laugh.

Two settlers walk into a bar.

Okay no, but two settlers _do_ walk right by him without even knowing it. He’s crouched by the corner of a ruined building - maybe a former corner store? Who knows. 

The settlers are armored up and one is carrying a dead radstag on his bulky shoulders.

“Radioed that Preston guy the other day, he said he’d send someone as soon as possible but still nothin’.”

The other settler spat, right at Deacon’s feet. Not even a second glance. “Figures. Told you the Minutemen were done for.” He laughs for a quick moment, “How ‘bout this one - Two Minutemen walk into a bar-

Before he can even hear how it ends Deacon’s already slinking away, heading east for Goodneighbor.

Five days.

That was their deal. Fixer had to check in with him after running a - what did she call it? - _personal errand_ , whatever that meant (like it was still 2077 and she need to pick up some milk from the drugstore). 

If Nora wasn’t back in five days, or didn’t make _some_ kind of contact (seriously, he would have accepted a sticky note on a mailbox saying ‘sup Deacs, I’m not dead.’) then he had to find her. Partially because it was his job, Des’ orders, but honestly because he wanted to keep her safe.

Deacon could have pressed her for more details, the who-what-where of it, and maybe she would have been better off if he did, but Fixer needed space. He’s already stalked her, it’s the least he could do to give her some semblance of privacy back.

And now they were both paying for it.

* * *

 

Deacon makes it to Goodneighbor well before sundown, which is nice for a change. He’s not against traveling at night, he likes sneaking in the shadows, likes the cool night wind carrying him place to place. But getting to Goodneighbor at a decent hour meant that Deacon might be able to slip into that sweet spot when Hancock’s actually awake and not totally strung out on jet.

John Hancock, Mayor of Goodneighbor and one of Fixer’s many friends. Deacon snuffs out the twinge of jealousy burning in his chest. Nora is popular, how could she not be when she walks into a room with that Rosie the Riveter can-do attitude. She's damn smart too, easy in the eyes in that pre-war way that only exists on posters. She’s well admired amongst the ‘Weath.

But Deacon sees a little bit more than just admiration; John’s lingering hands, flirting mouth, wandering eyes. Deacon’s watched Nora and Hancock take hits of jet together out of the same inhaler, huddled in their own booth at the Third Rail. John leaves his beloved town of misfits at a moments notice if Nora asks him to. He’s into her, to say the least. _Join the club_ , the selfish, bitter part of Deacon thinks.

That’s the thing, it’s not just a _part_ of Deacon that thinks that, it’s his whole self, the one he hides under layers and layers of lies. It’s the guy who he tried to leave behind with the UP Deathclaws. 

_Not the time,_ he reminds himself as he walks into the Old State House. He bounds up the stairs, ignoring one of the Watch who says “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Hancock, as predicted, is awake and _just_ reaching for his first hit of jet when Deacon barges in and plops himself on the couch. “You don’t make yourself a stranger, do you?”

“I thought strangers were welcome here, Hancock.”

John chuckles, “I guess they are, especially if a certain Vault girl is with them?”

Well isn’t that just the exact _opposite_ of what Deacon wants to hear.

“I was hoping she was crashing with you, actually.” Deacon sighed. “You haven’t seen her?”

“She was s’posed to come visit me a a few weeks ago but something came up.” He took a deep drag from from the jet inhaler. “Surprised you don’t know about it already.”

Deacon smiled, “I try not to pry.”

“Heh, right.” John settled into his couch, folding his arms behind his head. “Bet you want me to fill you in though, don’t you?”

_Ideally_ , Deacon bites his tongue _._ He’s not one to beg for information, he’s a _professional spy_ , thank you. He knows a thing or two about extracting information. Let him think Deacon knows more than he does, it always works.

“I mean there’s not much to fill in. She’s working on some other stuff, off the books so to speak. I’m just making sure she’s okay, maybe staying with a friend or something?”

John huffed, “Only in my dreams.”

Behind his sunglasses Deacon rolls his eyes. “Another friend, maybe?” He prompts as Hancock drops two mentats on his tongue and abandons the jet. Maybe he'll be helpful yet.

“You been down to the Third Rail yet? Chat up MacCready?”

He doesn't flare his nostrils or curl his lips like he wants to. “The Merc?”

John smiles, he's sharp and wry now. “Is there another one hidin’ in my bar that I don't know about?”

Deacon thought her business with that kid was done already, what the hell is she hanging out with him for? MacCready’s mouthy and more trouble than he's worth - which, come to think of it, is starting to seem like Fixer’s type. Present company included.

“Well, thanks for the help Mister Mayor.”

“Didn't do it for you, pal. Just find her.” He's actually concerned for Nora, cute. Deacon’s real self tries not to grind his teeth.

* * *

 

Magnolia is singing, her warm and smokey voice enveloping the room. She winks at Deacon when he reaches the last step at the bottom of the stairs. He smiles his most charming smile back at her, plucks an unopened bottle of whiskey off of a table and ducks into the back room before Whitechapel Charlie can yell at him.

He actually kind of likes the Third Rail. He’s always long for the old world and this bar let him play for a little while if he didn’t think about it too hard. A gorgeous gal crooning on stage, idle chatter, plenty of drinks. Plenty of pretty girls. And pretty boys.

Speaking of which...

He finds MacCready icing a fresh bruise and thumbing through a well loved Grognak.

Deacon swears that Mac’s ears perk up at the sound of his footsteps, his eyes shine with hope for a second before the kid realizes it’s him and not Nora.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just because Deacon can recognize that Mac has a cute face doesn't mean that he can't still hate his guts right?
> 
> Right??


	3. Three - And MacCready Has a Habit of Opening His Big Mouth

MacCready is aware that he has a big mouth. _Painfully_ aware, as he presses a cool washcloth to his bruised cheek. He he could barely part his lips without his lips without getting in trouble with someone. If he had to pin the blame to something he’d say it came from his time as Mayor of Little Lamplight. On rare nights when he’s blackout drunk and bourbon warm, he’s snuggled safely in his bed at the Rexford and there will be the crash of some junkie rolling off the bed next door - on those nights he’s startled awake by his own words, “Hold it right there, Mungo!”

He has a big mouth, he’s always had a big mouth.

Mac’s weary (he thinks that’s the right word) as he nurses his splitting headache and blooming bruise in the backroom of The Third Rail. Magnolia sings soft songs tonight, checking in on him every so often because she’s kind like that. Every time she pops through the hallway his eyes are too slow and his heart starts racing. Every time he sees the swish of her dark hair MacCready thinks it’s Nora coming back for him.

He blames his big mouth for her being gone.

MacCready shifts around in his favorite chair, he hangs his legs over one of the arms and tries to block out the mental image of Nora’s face that’s been seared into his mind.

The ache radiating from his cheek helps. He memorizes that pain instead.

He has a big mouth. One that starts fights.

* * *

 

Some idiot had been hitting on a girl who seriously looked like she was in the wrong town. She wasn’t vault clean but she wasn’t covered in blood either. She could have been a Diamond City runaway, someone’s teenage daughter. And was like everyone in Goodneighbor could smell it on her.

The idiot, dirty blond hair, patchwork jacket and worn jeans, must have been ten years older than she was. He hovered over her like a radiation storm, breathing down her neck in a way that made MacCready’s skin crawl.

He’s not an honorable man. He’s just a twenty-two year old kid himself, trying to give his son a better life. But when he sees something he doesn’t like it’s damn hard for him to stay quiet about it.

Mac wedges himself between the girl, a short little thing, and the dirtbag, who scowls in response. 

“What makes you think she’s interested in you, pal?” That’s not the sentence that starts the fight.

“Because I’m not some snot-nosed merc looking for an easy job.” Mac notices the scars and dirt on his face. He smells like he sweats vodka.

“Who’s snot-nosed?” Mac asks, an eyebrow raised.

The shit for breath scoffs, “Beat it, asshole.”

The girl has the smarts to sneak away. She leans against the wall closest to Magnolia’s stage. Mags’ singing doesn’t waver but MacCready feels her eyes piercing through him, he can hear the softness of her crooning like it’s warning enough. _Don’t do it, Bobby_.

He thinks about waiting for Ham to get his ass down here and drag the guy out but that won’t happen for another five minutes and he is hungry for a fight now. Mac’s starving for it, his hands shake at his sides like wild dogs begging to tear into fresh meat. 

“I said beat it!”

“You want to fight about it you fucking coward?”

It’s not the most suave way to start a fight, it’s not a witty one liner like he wants it to be but it get the job done. The only thing he regrets is breaking his promise to Duncan.

Scumbag swings for his body and Mac jumps back out of his reach. Scumbag jabs, his fist connects to MacCready’s cheekbone. Mac lets him have that one, lets him taste victory for a moment before grabbing him by the collar and delivering hook after hook after hook. It’s a knockout after the second punch, anyone in the bar can tell you that. Mac breaks the guy’s nose a minute after he’s gone unconscious anyways. Just for the hell of it.

Ham pulls him off, “Enough MacCready, I don’t want to have to tell Hancock about this.”

Ham’s a good guy, but he’s loyal to one person in Goodneighbor and it sure as hell ain’t MacCready. Hancock will know about this before the next hour is up.

Charlie’s cursing up a storm at MacCready but it falls on deaf ears. His fist fucking _hurts,_ way worse than his face does that’s for sure. With the fight broken up everyone stares at MacCready before returning to their drinks. Classic Goodneighbor.

“Go to the backroom or get the hell out of here, MacCready.”

He imagines this is what it must be like to be scolded by a father. If your father was a ghoul who worked security, maybe. Ham drags the guy up to a standing position but he’s still out of it.

“You’re not mad right, just disappointed?” Mac’s punch drunk as he says it.

“Get lost.” The ghoul bites out.

Mags drags him into the bathroom to wash off the blood on his hands. She wets a cloth for him and presses it to his cheek. She kisses the unbruised one, he closes his eyes and thinks about Nora. “Never pegged you as a knight in shining armour.”

He opens his eyes and it’s still Mags who’s taking care of him, “I’m not.”

* * *

 

It’s been some variation of that for the past few days. Some kind of reckless behaviour - fighting off ghouls with a knife, trying to take out gangs of raiders with a six-shooter, et cetera. It wears him out, which is good. For every stupid action there’s an equal and opposite sleepy reaction. MacCready’s third law of exhaustion.

He pulls out his favorite issue of Grognak, one that has an extra page inserted to the back thanks to his son.

He gets to page three before he hears footsteps coming his way. They’re light but still there. Mac’s eyes dart up but it’s Deacon standing there and he’s Nora-less. Great.

“Don’t you have people to lie to?” Mac growls.

“Don’t you have an ass to get kicked?”

Painfully they both realize this is the moment Nora would split them apart and ask them to “play nicely like good little boys”. 

“Let’s start this over: I come bearing gift. Singular.” Deacon swishes the whiskey. Mac nods and motions for him to come in. Deacon drags over a chair and he’s practically knee to knee with Mac. He takes a swig out of the bottle before passing it to Mac. Mac doesn’t wipe the lip of the bottle before taking a long gulp from it.

“How’d you get the shiner?” Deacon asks after a few passes of the bottle.

Mac snorts, “You should see the other guy.” He’s always wanted to say that.

“Bet you’ve always wanted to say that.” Deacon smirks in that shit eating way that Mac has always found irritating. Deacon loves to play mind reader. It makes Mac’s knuckles go white.

They take a few more sips each, sinking in the silence.

Until Deacon decides to break it. “So, uh, not that I don’t _love_ your company, but a little birdie told me that you were the last person to see Nora. Is that true?”

 

He blinks and he's in the Dugout Inn again, trying to keep the word vomit from coming up. His own words ring in his ears, _You really are something else_. It was too close and personal, he should have known better but she fucking conned him with that warm smile and firm absoluteness. She made promises to keep, something he hasn't witnessed since Lucy. God, Lucy would probably like Nora, too. It was hard not to imagine that the gentle breeze shifting her dark hair wasn't the ghost of Lucy saying _be good to this one, Bobby_. That the halo of stars that seemed to follow Nora at night wasn't Lucy adorning her with a crown.

 

“You with me, Mac?” Deacon snapped his fingers and MacCready was dropped back into his favorite chair in Goodneighbor. Magnolia was singing her last song.

“She left me in the middle of the night.” He grinds his teeth a little. He fights back the urge to add ‘No, not like _that’_ with another swig.

Deacon’s face doesn't change much at the admission. Mac isn't a spy, he can't deconstruct facial twitching into understanding a someone’s thoughts or feelings. Be he does have snipers’ eyes and he does notice the quick flattening of Deacons lips.

“We were in Diamond City, drinking at the Dugout Inn. She got all quiet and when I woke up in the morning she was gone. I thought about looping around to Sanctuary but I'm guessing if you're here you must be looking for her.”

Deacon nods but doesn't comment on it. They go sip for sip again, passing the bottle back and forth until Mac’s bones are heavy and his muscles are loose. If he was exhausted before he’s dead on his feet now.

Deacon’s smiling and his teeth gleam in the light of the VIP lounge. “You know she's a runner, right?”

“Nora?”

“The one and only. She has more commitment issues than you and me combined.”

Mac sits up, “I don't have commitment issues.”

“Right…” there's no way of telling but he's pretty sure that Deacon rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say pal.”

“We’re not together!” His voice rises in pitch. The words came out before he could stop them and they felt so unnecessary afterward. “She's just my boss.”

“Ooh, I know this one! And you're just her secretary who really needs a raise. You scamper around the office wearing all sorts of tight things, I bet.”

Mac’s rosy cheeks turn rosier. Deacon snorts, “What, never read a dirty romance novel before? Those weren’t in big demand with the gunners?”

“Screw you.” Mac mumbles.

“Oh, you'd like to, I'm sure.”

If bullshit was Deacon’s first language then flirting was his second. The words hang between them on thin prewar thread. Deacon doesn’t move, doesn’t advance further into Mac’s space but doesn’t give him room to breath either. Their knees are touching and Deacon’s hands are resting on his own thighs, so if he just slid them forward it would all be too much.

Mac stands upand the whole world is tilted. Only then does he realize he didn't eat anything before drinking ⅓ of the bottle with Deacon. He legs bump against Deacon’s knees as he maneuvers around him. It takes two tries to get everything into his pack. Nothing like a smooth exit.

“Come on, MacCready, I’m just playing around,” Deacon gets up and his legs aren’t stable either. He lands a heavy hand on Mac’s shoulder, ambles forward a few steps. “I’m really worried about her. She was supposed to come meet me this week.”

Mac shakes him off, “Sounds like you better find her.”

“Right. I’ll just lone wolf it.”

“Good.” Mac turns as he speaks and he has to bite the inside of his lip not to gasp -- or scoff, really, because it’s just his damn luck. It’s the soft glow of neon lights on the sides of Deacon’s face, it’s the the soft murmur of Mags saying goodbye to her favorite patrons. It’s the ghost of Lucy whispering in his ear, _Go with him._

“It’s too bad, really, had a big pile of caps with your name on it.”

“I’ll do it.”

“I mean it, you’re name in cursive on one of those fancy gift tags - man, it was a bitch to find.” Deacon freezes, “Wait, you said yes.”

“Two-hundred-fifty caps.” 

A long pause.

“What?”

“Two-hundred. And fifty. Caps.” MacCready insists.

Deacon rests his hand on his chest, his mouth agape. “To find our dear friend Nora you are charging me?”

“You _offered_.”

“I was _lying_. That’s what I _do_.”

“Two-fifty or I walk.”

“One-fifty, and you can keep any comics we find.”

“Two-hundred, and I was going to do that anyways.”

“One-seventy-five.”

“Deal.”

“Deal.”


	4. Four - Mac snores and Deacon plans

Deacon’s not exactly thrilled with the idea of working with the merc but that doesn’t stop him from charming his way into Mac’s room. Well, more like annoying his way into Mac’s room, depending on who you ask (Okay, okay,  _ fine _ \- More like  _ drugging  _ his way into Mac’s room since alcohol is technically a drug. But it’s not like MacCready needed encouragement to split the whiskey with him. That’s beside the point).

The _point_ is that mercenaries never clicked with Deacon. It’s been a long time since one had tried to join the Railroad but Deacon remembered the first question they asked was “How’s the pay?”.  He also remembers how they turn tail when he tells them there isn’t any. Typical. 

The fact that Deacon even has to pay MacCready to find Nora is evidence enough for him to know that mercs still don’t click with him.

And partnering up is still way out of his comfort zone (which is shockingly small for someone who has no problem stripping in public). When he first started working with Fixer he waited weeks for the knife to appear in his back. Deacon would watch the clouds pass, the buildings crumble at his feet and wonder when she would stop tolerating his bullshit. When she’d betray him, like any normal person would. It’s been months since that and now Deacon knows that Fixer is a saint, if there ever was such a thing. Patron Saint of Liars, Thieves and Rebels, so it seems.

But partnering with MacCready? Jesus, Deacon might as well load the gun and put it in Mac’s hand. Despite gathering intel being his job, his  _ expertise _ really, he knows next to nothing about MacCready. He’s seen some gunners harass him a few times and has strung together that he ran out on them but that’s about it (and that doesn’t really bode well). The kid keeps quiet and anyone Mac  _ would _ talk to would _ n't _ talk to Deacon (flirting with Daisy only got you so far, it seemed). Nora liked him well enough but Nora liked Deacon too, so obviously that showed questionable taste.

Alas, as Deacon stumbles up the stairs of the Hotel Rexford with MacCready, he knows this merc is his best chance at finding Nora. That alone was worth the all the bullshit he was going to have to put up with for the next few days.

“Easy pal, there’s still another step.” Deacon guides Mac to his room, his words loose and his smile looser. Mac laughs as he trips over the last step anyway.

They may have had more whiskey between the backroom at the Third Rail -- where Charlie chased them out with MacCready’s ever growing tab -- and the inside of the Rexford. The alcohol making them just a little more friendly, a little more open. Making Mac a little bit more willing to split his room with Deacon.

Mac is clumsy with the key, missing the lock once or twice before Deacon covers the merc’s hand with his own. Deacon’s close behind MacCready, close enough to rest his chin on Mac’s shoulder if he really wants to. Close enough that when he clasps his hand over MacCready’s his whole arm covers the length of Mac’s. Close enough he can smell whiskey, smokes, and gunpowder. He doesn’t dislike it.

Together they open the door and fumble onto the bed with a laugh, landing sideways. They lay next to each other for a minute as the room around them shrinks. Deacon’s skin burns where Mac’s arm brushes against him but his stomach tightens.

“I’m just, uh, gonna-” Deacon lifts himself off the bed and settles into the chair in the corner of the room.

“Yeah, good plan.” Half of Mac’s face is lost in the mattress while the other half is trying desperately to see whether Deacon will keep his sunglasses on the whole night. (He will).

Tired eyes focus in and out of focus for a moment before Mac gives up and figures he might as well pass out since he’s never going to figure out if Deacon actually sleeps at all. MacCready rights himself in the bed, even manages to kick off one shoe before drifting off into a pleasantly blank slumber.

 

* * *

 

Mac snores just enough to be annoying.

Deacon get’s it, he does. It’s not like the good ol’ days where you can pop down to the five and dime and get one of those little nose strips to fix it. Although, maybe a bit of duct tape might do the same thing?

Deacon’s pretty sure he has half a roll of duct tape on him from the last time Fixer gave him a three pack. Adhesive was basically her cure-all. Turret not working? Duct tape. Teddybear arm falling off? Duct tape. Out of food? Duct-- okay, maybe she wouldn’t go that far. 

But she’d probably eat a whole roll by herself if it meant her settlers could get a warm meal every night. She’d eat one hundred to get her son back.

MacCready rolls over onto his back and Deacon bites back a groan because  _ pal, that’s gonna make the snoring worse _ . 

The soft snore turns into a staccato, getting louder and louder until Deacon has a wadded up sock he’s ready to throw at MacCready’s head. Deacon perches on the edge of his arm chair turned bed, eager to pitch the sock right at Mac’s temple when--

“Dunc,” Mac mumbles as he turns away from Deacon. The halt of the snoring makes Deacon lurch forward like an unexpected stop on a train. “Luce.”

Dunk? Loose? Dunkloose?

Deacon settles back into his chair, avoiding the spring that’s poking out of the cushion on his left side. He mulls over the words as he puts his sock and then his shoe back on. He stares at the peeling wallpaper and repeats the words over and over again in his mind. What could they mean?

He doesn’t even notice Mac’s snoring anymore.

 

* * *

MacCready wakes, still groggy from the previous night. He pulls his duster around himself tighter, willing away the morning and the pounding behind his eyes. There’s the sound of a lighter flicking, and then the smell of a lit cigarette. His hand reaches for the pistol he keeps on the nightstand before his mind can fully flashback to last night.

“Easy there, sharpshooter.” Deacon’s voice is rough and low. “Just me.” 

Mac huffs in response, laying the pistol down.

Mac rolls over onto his back and slowly --  _ Jesus Christ, slowly  _ \-- sits up to rest against the slanted headboard. The inside of his head roars at him for it despite his glacial pace. The details trickle down in his mind like the first few drops of rain. Deacon’s in his room because they’re going to find Nora. And Nora’s gone because of his big mouth. His chest aches.

He finds his own pack of cigarettes and lights up, hoping the nicotine might clear his head. 

Deacon surprises him, yet again, by sitting at the foot of his bed. He brings over a pen and a half clean legal pad that has a rough (we’re talking sandpaper) layout of the Commonwealth. What seems to be a Minuteman hat is in the upper left corner, a baseball diamond is in the center and a few other points of interest are marked by stars.

“Starting already?” Mac grumbles. He wonders if his hangover is bad enough to warrant a stimpak.

“If you’ll allow it, sleeping beauty.” Deacon fires back.

MacCready wants Nora to be okay, he really does, and even that’s kind of unnerving. He’s not supposed to get attached that way, not supposed to have trouble sleeping without her (and damn did that sound pathetic when they very much  _ weren’t  _ sleeping together. Unless under the same roof or sky counted.)

Somewhere, in the withered part of his heart, MacCready knows he shouldn’t be acting this way, that he shouldn’t take it so personally. But fuck, it’s hard not to when the night he word vomits his soul for the entirety of the Dugout Inn, is the same night Nora chooses to skip out on him.

“Alright, Nora was last seen at the Dugout Inn.” Deacon says. Not for the first time Mac’s head is too tight with Deacon sneaking his way in to read his thoughts. “Did she give any indication of where she was going?”

Mac takes two drags from his cigarette. “No. But we could rule out some of the places we know she’s  _ not _ .”

Deacon nods, “Okay, yeah. It’s a fair bet that if Garvey spotted her it’d be all over Minutemen radio and we know she’s not here, in Goodneighbor.”

“She’s been prepping for a trip to the Glowing Sea.” Mac rolls his eyes. That place is suicide. “But, she didn’t have anything more rad proof than a gas mask. She f-friggin’ hates going down south too, calls it a ‘downer’.”

Deacon snorts. The whole planet’s a downer these days. “Alright, so she’s probably avoided most of the south and south west then.” Deacon scribbles hatch marks over that portion of his map. “No way she’d go near Brotherhood territory without Danse and last I heard he’s still in Cambridge. The bastard would probably be gloating if he was with her anyhow.”

Mac’s still sifting through the radioactive hellscape of the Glowing Sea. They were trying to make enough caps to buy supplies and, ultimately, fortify her power armor. Caps. She needed work for caps, just selling salvage wouldn’t cut it.

Deacon's talking, mostly to himself at this point, when Mac interrupts him. “They post odd jobs for mercs in Diamond City. She might have picked one up, hoping to score some loot or caps.”

Deacon mulls over it, peering at his map, “I buy that.” His glasses glint as he looks up at Mac, “Nice work, Bobby.”

There's an underlying  _ We could make an agent out of you yet _ in Deacon’s voice that Mac doesn’t pick up on. He’s still blind to Deacon’s involvement in the Railroad, maybe even blind to Fixer’s near starring role. It’s not surprising, exactly, because Deacon’s a damn good spy (and Nora’s shaping up to be damn good too) and MacCready doesn’t ask personal questions. He’s a point and shoot kind of guy.

There was something endearing though, about the way Mac would stand outside when Fixer popped into the Old North Church. He assumed she was seeking salvation or guidance, maybe that she was praying, kneeling in the ruined pews. MacCready should have learned by now that Nora’s full of surprises and in that church  _ she _ is the salvation.

So, yeah, he doesn’t know that they’re in the Railroad but he does know that Deacon’s a dirty liar. Some kind of conman. Trouble taking form in a back alley quickchange. And Deacon intends to keep it that way. 

Deacon shifts off of the bed to stuff the map into his pack while Mac decides that the stimpak is worth it. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed when he jams the needle into his thigh, through his clothes because he hates watching the needle disappear under his skin.

With a clear head he can feel that his coin bag is 175 caps lighter than it ought to be. This is still a job he needs to be paid for and he’s always a caps upfront kind of guy.

As he laces up his one missing boot he reminds Deacon, “You still gotta pay me before we head out.”

“I paid you last night.”

He stares pointedly at Deacon, who doesn’t budge.

“Honest, I really did.”

Mac shakes his head, “No, you really didn’t.”

Deacon sighs like it’s the biggest inconvenience in the world, “ _ Fine _ .” He pulls out his stash of caps and shells out the appropriate amount. “Happy?”

Mac counts the caps twice to spite him (and to make sure the conman isn’t conning him). “Sure. Let’s get going.”

“Gee, Bobby, you’re no fun.” Deacon says as they leave the hotel room. “But it’s okay, I’m enough fun for the both of us.” He waggles his eyebrows. 

Mac groans as he shuffles out of the hotel room. This whole day is going to be bullshit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's not dead...it's me.


End file.
